


and all i see is skin

by mentalistecbm



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 08:58:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mentalistecbm/pseuds/mentalistecbm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>zayn's still so beautiful, and he can move his body in ways liam's trying to wrap his head around, and he looks and feels and talks and breathes like he's got a notion of things that liam doesn't. </p><p>alt: liam is tired, zayn is a stripper, and he doesn't know how he got here but he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and all i see is skin

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for infidelity. very, very heavy h/liam friendship. thank you to n & c; all likely mistakes are my own. 
> 
> this is a rather belated birthday present for monia, who i hope enjoys this and doesn't mind that it's so horribly short and of questionable quality. beasty loves you ♥

**i.**

 

The last Friday of November, Harry shows up at his job half an hour before he's meant to leave with a bottle of hard scotch cuddled in a brown paper bag. 

Liam walks back around to his desk, sitting back down on his worn and comfortable leather chair Louis had gotten him for Christmas last. Harry leans against the frame of the door, half in and half out, and stares at Liam with squinted eyes across the bright glow of his office. 

"H'lo," Liam greets, "are you planning on shutting the door? S'abit cold." 

"A bit," Harry agrees, stepping in fully and closing the door behind him with a soft _click_. He pulls the sleeves of his jumper farther down and walks forward, sitting at one of the straight-backed chairs in front of the desk. He sets the bag down and rests his head on his palm, looking intently at Liam with searching eyes.

Liam stretches his arm out to grab a paper from the printer, signing across the bottom with his awkward script. He glances at Harry, still staring, and sighs, bringing his pen up to his mouth and biting the bottom. It's a horrible habit, Dani tells him, but he's been doing this for as long as he can remember. 

Harry still hasn't said anything. Liam sighs again and takes the bite. 

"Fine. What?"

Harry smiles, a flash of his too big front teeth and quirk to the left, and then asks, "when was the last time you went out?"

Liam tries not to cringe, and answers carefully. "Last night."

"You went to the theatre with Danielle to watch a PG-13 film." 

"We went for dinner after, you know. And it was a good movie. The hero saved the day and got the girl, all that."

Harry rolls his eyes. "What counts for dinner in your eyes at this point? Did you go to the supermarket and get a platter of wings and chips to call it a day?"

Liam flushes. He looks back down at the stack of papers he's still got to fill out for the new set of houses they're still working on for H4H, brings a hand up to rub at his eye. He's tired, and the pen almost stabs him in the eye. "Dani likes chips," Liam mumbles half-heartedly. 

"Liam, I have known you since we were five years old. Have you forgotten, mate? Like. I know that you're not actually this boring." He leans forward on his elbows, waits until Liam looks back up and into his eye to continue speaking. "Know you're not, but you've been really acting like it. You've let Aston go out more times than you have, and Aston is fuckin' antisocial." 

"I'm not _boring_. The clubbing every week scene isn't for all of us, not for every couple."

Ignoring his last comment, Harry says, "you're too comfortable."

"Nothing wrong with being comfortable. Louis helps you figure out what to wear when you're too hungover, and you always cook breakfast for him, that's pretty damn comfortable."

"Yeah, but. That's different. At least we have fun and, you know, do things. Even if it's just at home. Me and Lou bought this, like, set of toys and fuck does he know how t - "

"I really! Really really do not want to know that at all, Harry. Harry. No."

Harry smirks. "Is that too delicate for your vanilla sensibilities?" 

"Was there a point to this or were you just planning on ribbing me about my boringness until it's time to leave?" 

"Point! Yeah, that, duh, always a man with a plan." He leans back and picks the bag back up, unscrewing the cap of the bottle and taking a swig, shaking his head and pulling a face as it goes down. "That's really strong. Would you like some? You look like you need it." 

"Danielle doesn't like when I drink," he says, beginning to put his things away to get ready to leave. It's already 10:30 and he should have gotten home hours ago. God, he's tired. 

"Danielle likes this, Danielle doesn't like that. Fuck that. What about what you want? If you want a goddamn drink, take a goddamn drink."

"I don't want a goddamn drink," he tells him, pushing a wild strand back from his forehead. He looks regrettably at Harry's sitting precarious but stable on top of his head, and resists sighing for the fiftieth time in the last half hour. Harry's got striking curls. He's got a stupidly tangled afro mess. 

"Good, that's the answer I wanna hear." Harry takes another long swig, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth when he's finished. "We're going out tonight. Put on your nice boots. And bring money." 

"What, no. And no, I'm not trying to pull, I don't have to wear any sort of boots."

Harry gets up and follows Liam as he walks towards the door, stepping outside into the biting wind and cold. As Liam locks the door behind him, Harry says, "Lou and I will be around to get you in, like, ten minutes. Make sure you're ready. And put on the fucking boots, Liam." 

He jogs away to his car, bag cradled carefully in one huge palm, and turns around to wave bye at Liam before he pulls on the handle. "Cheers, mate!" 

Liam stares dejectedly as Harry swiftly backs out and speeds off towards the lights. Sighs. 

 

The club they go to is rather nondescript; Liam can't tell what it is from the outside alone, and this immediately puts him on edge because he knows better than to trust Harry or Louis, especially not when they're in on it together. Which they almost always are. 

"Have you brought me to a brothel? Is this a brothel? _Harry_ ," he demands, poking Harry’s shoulder. Harry looks at him through the rearview mirror, raising an eyebrow.

“What?”

“You’ve brought me to a brothel,” Liam explains. 

“Shut up, Liam,” Louis tells him, unbuckling the seat belt Harry had yelled at him to put on, and getting down from the car. He opens Liam's door for him, smirking, and continues, "no one calls them brothels anymore." 

Liam loudly protests, but the stagger of people around don't care at all, and before he's even fully registered what's happening, Harry and Louis have dragged him into the brothel. As he looks around, he quickly realizes that, well, it's not a brothel, but it may as well be. Strip club.

"I haven't been to one of these in ages," he thinks aloud, scratching his head and blushing when a scantily clad - man? walks by with a tray of drinks balanced on his left forearm. 

"We know," Harry says, patting him on the shoulder. "And we care. About your lack of soc - " 

Liam cuts him off as he gazes about the place a second time, asking slowly, "have you guys... brought me to a gay strip club?" 

"The girl ones ick me out," Louis explains. "And Harry let me pick, so. I'm sure you'll enjoy it anyway."

"I'm not gay," Liam reminds them. 

"Of course you're not," Harry remarks absentmindedly, eyes following another mostly naked boy walking by. Liam can't help but notice that he has a nice bum. He closes his eyes shut and chastises himself for noticing anything. He has a girlfriend and he's not _gay_. Mostly. Or something. Whatever. Protocol. 

Louis smacks the back of Harry's head, pulling him out of his unauthorised staring and yanking the two of them towards a table near the side of the platform. "Couch," he warns Harry. 

"Louis, we're at a strip club and you're threatening to couch me if I look at a half-naked guy, I think we've got to sort things out," Harry says, taking the liquor book and leaning back in his seat. When Louis pokes his tongue out, Harry's eyes soften as a corner of his mouth quirks up in a small smile, and Liam isn’t sure why, but there’s a dull pang in his chest that he doesn’t know quite what to do with, so he looks away from the two of them, biting his lip. 

It's a nice club, all things considered; it's not all smoke and greasy looking middle-aged men, although there is quite a bit of both of those things. Basis to stereotypes, or whatever. 

The brunet currently up on the stage doesn't seem to really be holding anyone's attention, and the club is in some sort of rushed frenzy, like the waiters are trying to quickly get all drink orders through before some sort of main event. 

"What the _fuck_ is he doing," Louis demands to know, raising a judgemental eyebrow. The dancer is doing some - strange and rather worrying hip movements that only manage to look uncomfortable instead of properly seductive or sensual in the least. A few bills weakly fall onto the platform, and Liam feels kinda bad for him, it's so horrible. "I could do ten times better than that." 

"Take a part time here. It'll help with the wedding bills. You are really flexible, sure you'd be a natural," Harry teases. 

"Don't mention wedding bills on our night out, Styles, we're meant to be releasing stress, not inviting it in with open arms."

"I thought this night was for me," Liam says, jokingly offended. 

"It speaks!" Harry exclaims. "Have you regained your senses or is this still too much culture shock?"

"Fuck you," Liam remarks lightheartedly. "I'm fine." 

"Yeah?" Harry asks, a tone of concern entering his voice. "If this is too _too_ much just let me know and we'll go?" 

"Nah, it's cool. S'fine." 

Something flashes in his eyes, but it's gone before Liam can figure out what; Harry grins, hailing a waiter and ordering a set of beers that get there in the shortest wait time Liam is sure he's ever experienced. "D'ya have singles?" Louis asks him, taking out a thick envelope from somewhere and handing it to Harry, who opens it up and separates the stack of singles into a set of two, handing half to Louis and keeping the other for himself.

"No," Liam admits. "Harry didn't specify, so I just got whatever." 

"Of course he didn't," Louis sighs. Taking from both his and Harry's, he ignores Liam's protests otherwise and hands him his own pile. Liam puts it back down on the table and Louis breathes out heavily through his nose. "You can't come to a strip club and not have stacks to throw, Liam." 

"I'm not going to be throwing _stacks_ \- why are you calling them stacks, is Harry having a rap kick again?"

"That's besides the point," Louis says, even while Harry coughs guiltily. "Can you please, please, please for once not argue with me over everything and stop being so proud and just take the fucking money?" 

Liam opens his mouth, but Harry murmurs, “I really do hate how you two fight over the dumbest shit,” so he shuts it. Blinks long, pushes his hair off his forehead, and takes the stupid money. 

“Thank you,” Louis says. 

“I don’t even like you,” Liam tells him, only mostly joking. 

Suddenly, the lights dim. The previous chatter of a group not paying attention to the person on the stage dies down, and there seems to be some sort of low murmur of anticipation that has Liam instinctually and unconsciously sitting up in his seat. 

A man comes onto the stage. He’s brown and beautiful, has sharp features that look as if they could, God, cut through glass. He looks like he’s made of glass. Lean, looks delicate. So delicate. 

From a speaker somewhere above their heads, a low voice simply announces, “Zayn.” No grand introduction, no elaborate phrases to hype the crowd up and make them more eager to give all their money away, as if just that one name is enough, will do the job. Apparently it is. 

Liam has never really been the best at describing things, or even getting how to do so. He can’t put a name to the twists and curves and jumps of the stripper's oiled body up on the platform, or the smooth grace and support of how he balances himself on the pole, but he can look and he can admire and hell if he doesn't. 

To be honest, Liam thinks he's been rendered speechless. It's not like he's never seen a stripper before, or even a male one, for that matter, but. This one, Zayn or whatever the announcer had said, he's so attractive that it's just ridiculous. 

Liam doesn’t fully realise how close he is to the platform until, all of a sudden, Zayn is standing on the very edge, crotch in front of his face, and then it looks like he’s preparing for a flip, and then he _is_ , he’s just performed a backflip over Liam’s head and is standing on the uneven balance of their table. Dancing. On their table. 

Louis and Harry are cheering, making celebratory noises, leaning around Liam to squeeze bills between the elastic of his shiny gold skin tight shorts that seem to meld with his dark skin, but all Liam can do for a moment is stare like an absolute tosser, caught between Zayn’s skinny legs or his surprisingly toned thighs or his - well. But, mainly, his face. He’s got such a nice face. 

Zayn crouches down, so that he’s more eye level with Liam. The bass of the dance music is pounding through Liam’s skull, and Zayn’s hand is reaching out, pressing firmly under his chin, and... shutting his jaw shut, with amused eyes and a smirk. 

Liam feels a flush heat up his skin, but he can’t look up, can’t help but keep his mouth still a bit parted as the time goes by. It’s only a few seconds, at most, that Zayn stays there, quickly studying Liam’s face and lifting an eyebrow, but it feels a lot. Longer. It feels like an eternity, or something of the sort. 

It’s Harry, he thinks by the smell of oranges and ink, that removes the money from his hand and sticks it into Zayn’s mouth for him to bite down around. Zayn breaks his very short analysis at that, and somehow manages to grin slowly and seductively around the paper between his teeth, and Liam can’t look away, not even when Zayn finally _walks_ away, a predatory and sensual way to the way his body moves. 

“Don’t forget to breathe,” someone whispers in his ear, amused. It feels like being slapped with a wet fish, and he blinks rapidly, rubbing a hand over his face to try and clear his thoughts. 

He’s hard; he can feel his erection pressing against the restraints of what’re probably Harry’s insanely tight jeans, and it’s uncomfortable as all out. Liam doesn’t think he’s been this painfully hard in a long while, and he wonders what that’s supposed to mean. It probably doesn’t mean anything. 

He looks away from whatever Zayn has continued doing back on the stage, digging the heels of his palm against his eyes. Tired. He’s tired, and he feels all wrong inside, and for the millionth time, has no clue what’s just happened in his life, but he knows it was something. 

“Harry,” he says hoarsely, and Harry knows, of course he does, he’s the only person in the world who knows Liam as well as Liam knows himself - better, even, most of the time - and not two minutes later, they’re out of the club and headed home. 

 

**ii.**

 

It’s another month and a half before Harry manages to get him out of the house again. Liam has been avoiding his requests, finding himself extra paperwork to do or going out with Danielle so that he doesn’t have to lie, because he _hates_ lying to Harry, and he always sees right through him anyway. 

Earlier this evening, though, Harry cornered him at the supermarket, and then took him hostage, of course with the help of Louis, and dragged him back to their flat, threw clothes at him to put on and threatened all free will if he didn’t. Liam has clearly known Harry well enough to know when the limit is close to being pushed, and he’s too tired to argue. That, if anything, only makes Harry look more upset, the frown lines on his face deepening as he sits back on his bed and watches Liam get changed with a quiet resignation. 

“Liam,” he starts. He doesn’t finish. Liam is grateful for that.

The club is packed. It’s a Saturday night, and Louis has been shoving drink after drink into his hands all night. It’s almost definitely a scheme to get him to relax. Works, for the most part. He spends a lot of it smiling at Harry’s stupid, rambling story about what happened in court today and nursing bottles of beer. 

They manage to pull him onto the dancefloor, and he dances with with the two of them and the press of the crowd around them. It’s really... it’s really nice. He’s grinning wide by the end of the night, and by the time they’ve dropped him back to his flat, some of the lines of Harry’s usually clear face have vanished.

 

**iii.**

 

Same club. Different night. 

He’s dancing with a boy, and he’s got bright brown eyes and golden brown skin Liam knows he’s seen before, but it’s late, and he’s a bit drunk. And he feels like shit. And he doesn’t want to. 

The boy’s name starts with an S or a Z, but Liam isn’t sure which, even though he’s generally good with names. S-or-Z is good with his hands, and Liam thinks he might be a bit more wasted than he’d thought, but he doesn’t push him away, even though he can remember well enough that he’s got a girl waiting for him at ho - somewhere. He doesn’t want to think about the girl, and Louis told him not to think about the girl and her penchant for picking fights and making Liam hate himself just that tiny pinch more _like the fucking idiotic fucking bitch she is_ , Harry’s words. 

Liam isn’t thinking about that.

The boy’s name starts with a Z. He is very tan and very beautiful, and the way he swings his hips and moves his hands makes it seem like he has an idea of what he’s doing, and the thing is that Liam feels so _horrible_ , and he’s tired of feeling this way. He wonders if the boy’s knowledge will rub off on him if he keeps him dancing just a little bit longer. 

He isn't supposed to bring him home, but he does.

 

**iv.**

 

The first thing Liam does when he wakes up the next morning is throw up. 

Then, he gingerly slips back into the foreign bedroom and puts his clothes back on, mindful not to make any noise. After that, he leaves to brace himself against the bite of early morning December, calls Harry, and waits. 

First, second, third. He tells himself that if he thinks about this as a list, like a job he's got to hurry and get through, then it'll, then he'll be able to handle it. Liam tells himself a lot of things, and they're not always true. 

Harry gets there in minutes, even though the average time of distance should be half an hour. He looks wrecked when he wrenches the door open, barely skidding his and Louis' shared Volkswagen to a stop. 

" _Liam_ ," he breathes, pulling Liam up from his spot on the stairs to pulls him into a bearhug, burrowing his face into his neck. His hands are rough on Liam's back as he exhales deeply. When he pulls back, he looks murderous. "Do you fucking _know_ how many fucking times I called your phone? You just left the club without telling either of us! And we don't know where you've gone or why or when and you, just. Fuck, Liam, Louis tried to file a fucking missing person's report on you," he concludes, losing heat and smiling dryly. 

"I slept with someone," Liam replies. There's almost a disturbing lack of emotion in his voice, and he wonders if Danielle wringed all of that from him during last night's fight. Maybe she took it away a long time ago. 

Harry runs a hair through his hair, taking a few steps backwards to properly get a look. "So I noticed. C'mon," he says softly, nodding towards the running car. 

In the car, Harry drives carefully and slowly for once, and doesn't say anything for the first few moments of the ride.

"Who?" he finally asks. 

"Didn't know ‘til this morning, but. Stripper from the, from."

"Fuck," Harry whispers. 

"Yeah." Liam leans his head against the cold glass of the window. Head hurts.

**{interlude}**

Danielle is waiting for him when he gets home. _It's not even your flat_ , Liam thinks to himself as he locks the door. Knows better than to say it aloud.

"It's seven AM," Danielle says. 

"Hi," Liam replies quietly. He heads into the kitchen to get a glass of water. He can hear Danielle’s footsteps behind him, the click-click of the soles of her shoes against the tile. He’s facing the sink with the cup up to his mouth when she enters. He doesn’t turn around. 

“Liam,” she says. Liam doesn’t respond, swirling the water in his mouth around. She continues regardless. “It’s seven AM, and you’re just now getting home.”

 _You don’t live here_ , his mind supplies. Liam looks out the small window above his kitchen sink, watches the flurry of snow falling down. 

“I don’t know or understand why you’ve suddenly - it’s as if you’re becoming some sort of manic party animal sort of thing, and you know I hate that.” Out of his periphery, Liam sees her fling her hair over the other shoulder. He tries to think about it, and he thinks it was probably sometime around last month's biggest fight. Fight, fight, fight. That's all she does anymore, anyway. 

Liam rinses the now empty glass and turns it upside down to dry. "I can't say I'm shocked that _Harry_ ," she spits it out like it's a bad word, "is the one behind all of this. He's made it very clear that he never liked me, and of course he'd want to sabotage our relationship. I've always wondered why you're even his fri - "

Liam grips the edge of the counter, his knuckles dangerously white. "Danielle, please stop."

"Don't interrupt me, Liam."

"Then don't talk shit about Harry!" he finally snaps. He loses all the heat before it's even fully been established. "Please."

Danielle freezes, as if in shock that he's dared to shout at her, and Liam takes that as his chance to walk around her and escape out of the kitchen and to his bedroom. He is tired. 

 

**v.**

 

Five is a good number. 

Five weeks go by, and Liam thinks he's officially in some sort of affair situation, and he never, ever expected himself to be _that_ person or anywhere near this sort of ordeal, but he's in and he doesn't know how to get out or if he wants to. It's all very scary, and Liam doesn't know what he's doing. 

It's the stripper. From the last time, the first time. Zayn. He's still so beautiful, and he can still move his body in ways Liam's trying to wrap his head around, and he looks and feels and talks and breathes like he's got a notion of things that Liam doesn't. 

It's like this: there will be a fight, and Liam will remember Zayn's number and however it mysteriously got into his phone. Danielle will leave, and Liam will drive over, and he'll knock at Zayn's door and sometimes Zayn will be there, and Liam'll fuck him. Zayn is good about that. 

Then Liam will leave and he'll cry in his car and have all sorts of pathetic moments and want to bang himself up, but that part isn't particularly important, it never was. 

 

"Will you tell me 'bout yourself?" he asks Zayn one time. Today, Danielle told him that maybe the reason they always argue (as if Liam ever says anything back) is because Liam is a fucking shell, a robot with occasional receptors that barely even work anymore. Liam hadn't known what to say in reply to that, so he'd said _ok_ and then she'd left and here we are. Here we are. 

Zayn's overhead fan is spinning round and round; Liam vaguely wonders if it would ever fall on him. They're lying side by side, catching their breath, and Liam knows the only reason Zayn hasn't kicked him out yet is because he's entirely worn out. Liam supposes he might have been a bit rougher than usual today: the worse the fight, the harder he fucks. He thinks Zayn might like that, though. 

Zayn props himself up on his elbows, stares down at Liam and tilts his head, saying with what seems like a genuinely curious tone in his voice, "why would I do that?" He's got a more northern accent, and Liam doesn't get why, but he would like to know how a northern boy ended up here, in shoddy Brighton with its cold beaches and colder people. 

Liam flushes. Mumbles, "don't know," and leaves three minutes later. 

 

Zayn is on his hands and knees, head braced between his arms. He's panting, moaning, grunting and crying out; so very vocal but not at all ashamed of it. Liam wants to know how to be that way, how to be entirely comfortable with screaming when it gets good enough, how to be able to fuck with the lights on and not feel some sort of crushing grip in your chest, like you're doing something wrong. 

Liam wants to ask him, but he doesn't, he pounds into him harder and faster, however he wants. How he wants. Zayn doesn't care how he goes, how in control he is, as long as he gets it, and it's so _refreshing_ , it really is, not having someone complaining in his ear about his every movement, about the stupid angle of his hips or how he sounds when he comes. 

None of that. It’s primal, raw at the base of it, and. Liam isn’t tired. That’s probably the first warning. 

 

**vi.**

 

When Harry finds out, it’s two AM on a Tuesday night. He has a sinking feeling that Danielle is still at his flat, so he’s come here instead, because he reeks of sex and Zayn’s smoky, expensive cologne, and he figures that - wouldn’t be good. It isn’t until he’s up in Harry’s bathroom, hearing Louis’ sleepy trek back up to their room that he realises that, like, now he probably has to deal with Harry, and that scares him more than Danielle’s reaction ever could. 

He strips his shirt over his head; hears the door creak open, and then Harry’s heavier steps on the wood flooring, causing it to creak minutely. Louis murmurs, voice dragging and sleep-riddled, “you needta talk to your boy. He reeks of it, and _it_ is a bloke.” Harry whispers something back in reply, too soft for Liam to hear, and then the door clicks shut. 

Liam looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot red. There are bags, dark circles of skin around, at least two days of stubble on his jaw. He looks like an absolute horror. Looks how he feels, or however it goes.

Harry pushes the bathroom door open and leans against the frame, legs crossed at the ankles and arms crossed over his bare chest, tight joggers bunched up around his waist, like they’d been put on in a hurry. They don’t say anything; Harry stares at him silently, in that way he has, as if he’s trying to assess the situation and how to best go about it, and it makes Liam’s palms itch. It’s times like this that Liam is sharply reminded of why Harry is a lawyer, and how good he is at his job. He doesn’t like being the one under trial, though. 

“Evening,” Liam says after a few tense moments of silence, trying for a smile but knowing it doesn’t reach his eyes or seem genuine at all. 

Harry uncrosses, crosses his arms and sighs. Some of the lines of his face are gone, but there’s an ever-present furrow in his brow that Liam knows he’s the cause of and hates. “How long, Liam?”

“I don’t know,” he lies. 

Harry’s mouth sets in a straight line, and he doesn’t reply, just gives Liam his look, patiently waiting for him to crack. He does. 

“Like. I don’t know the exact date, Haz, but, um. Like, a week after that - a week after.”

Harry nods, trying to form the timeline in his head. “All that time, and you didn’t even tell me?” He inhales deeply, and asks, “who?”

Liam opens his mouth, hesitates. Apparently, that's enough of an answer for Harry. 

"Same guy from last, isn't it?"

Liam closes his mouth and nods. 

"Liam, I can't, like..." he pauses, searching for the right words to say. "I can't tell you what to do, or say that I get why, because that'd be a lie, but. I don't understand why you don't just break up with Danielle? And I _know_ , I know we've talked about this before, but Liam, she makes you so unhappy that you're cheating to escape it? Don't say that's not why, because we both know it is. I just." Harry sighs, rubs a hand over his face. He looks as if he could drop asleep at any second. Liam wants to guide him back to bed, get him under the covers with Louis and convince him to stop worrying so much, especially about such a shitty best friend. 

"I can't."

"You can."

"I don't know how," Liam admits. 

"The way I see it, you’ve got two ways this could go. 50/50. You could break up with her, and then sleep with whoever you want to sleep with harmlessly, or you could keep going at this, and she’ll find out and everything will get even more fucked up than it is now.”

“It’s not that, I can’t just - ” Liam huffs out a harsh breath. He’s so frustrated, but it’s aimed at no one but himself. “We’ve been dating for more than, for a very long time. I... love her.” 

Harry says softly, “you don’t cheat on the people you care about, Liam.”

Liam blinks. It was approaching three when he got here, and he can feel the sleep in his eyes, the ever present tired twitching in his muscles. 

“You look like you’re going to collapse,” Harry murmurs. “Go sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow morning."

“I’m sorry,” Liam tells him.

Harry smiles, slow and sad. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

 

**vii.**

 

Here’s the second warning: 

One day, after they've finished, Zayn comes back from cleaning himself up in the bathroom, throws a wet cloth at Liam and asks him, "what do you want to know?" 

Liam looks up from where he's wiping his stomach. "I'm sorry?" 

"You asked me one time to tell you about myself. What do you want to know?" 

"Oh," Liam says. "I don't know. Anything." 

Zayn climbs onto the bed. There's something so artful about the way he moves, like some sort of personified masterpiece. Liam is suddenly reminded of the night at the strip club, at the way he'd moved his body, comfortable in his own skin and beautiful as all. 

"I'm from the north,” he starts. He’s sat himself across Liam on the bed, his knees drawn up to his chest, chin nestled on it and staring at Liam as if he’s trying to figure something out. Still. It reminds Liam of the look he’d first given him, and the same one he’d given the time he’d called after the first hookup. “Came here a few years ago with an ex, but he was rich, or whatever, and missed him parents’ money too much so he ran back home. I’m twenty-six. My favourite colour is purple. I have a part-time dog.” He grins, then, and Liam thinks it’s the first time he’s seen him smile properly instead of a halfhearted curl of his lip or derisive amusement when Liam can’t get the condom on properly. It’s nice, all straight white teeth and a sparkle in his eye. Liam feels something weird and unfamiliar twist in his gut. “I enjoy long walks on the beach with him, and reading poetry at three AM."

Liam laughs abruptly, not having expecting the twist of humour. Zayn is still grinning, and it suits him, Liam thinks; his face is lit up all bright. 

"What's his name? Why only part time?" Liam asks, not even sure if he's allowed to. 

"Max. Imilian. Maximilian." The grin faded, but his lips twitch, like he's aware of the simultaneous ridiculousness and predictability of the name. This is the most Liam has ever seen him smile in their two months of sketchy hookups. He wonders what's different, what's changed or triggered this. "Niall watches him on the weekends, when I'm working." 

Liam wants to ask _who's Niall_ but instead, "what's he look like, what type of dog?" 

"Is this 20 questions?" Zayn lifts an eyebrow. Liam feels the heat rush to his cheeks and shrugs. Zayn laughs. "He's a pitbull."

"I never had a dog. My mum was allergic, so she got us a bunch of really fancy fish and a turtle named Jack."

"Sounds riveting," Zayn tells him. Liam doesn't get to reply because Zayn has leaned forward and captured his mouth in a kiss, and that's so much nicer than talking. "Wanna go again. Lie back." 

Liam nods hurriedly, pressing himself back on the dirty sheets, relishing Zayn's growing erection against his stomach. It's refreshing to know that someone wants him, even if it's in the most shallow ways possible. 

 

Liam doesn't realize it then, but that's the first time Zayn has ever asked him for a second time, to stay longer than absolutely necessary. It's not the last. 

 

**viii.**

 

"Favourite movie?" 

"The Dark Knight," Liam answers.

Zayn makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat. "Mine too. Joker."

" _No_ ," Liam disagrees. "Batman all the way. You can't like the bad guy most." 

"Says who? He has layers. He's interesting. The only reason he's that way is because of shitty circumstances in his past." 

"Yeah, well. So does Batman." 

Zayn rolls his eyes. "Of course you'd be all about the absolute good of things."

Liam feels his throat close up. He whispers, "no, I don't think I am."

Zayn hums. He run idle fingers over Liam's thigh, next to where his head is resting, and it's dangerously next to his cock. Groaning and banging his head back on the headboard, Liam complains, "I cannot physically go again, please stop." 

Zayn laughs softly and turns his head to press a kiss on the inside of Liam's thigh, nose almost brushing his balls. 

"Draw," Liam sighs, pulling Zayn up for a kiss. 

 

Liam has him saved as _Z_ on his phone, but he doesn't really think about it until one morning in the office. The Habitat for Humanity homes have finally been completely taken care of, paperwork signed and hands shook; Liam has been promised to get to meet the families they'll get given to. There's no monetary gain from this, but that's more than alright, because the feeling he gets is something ten much better. 

But, whatever. He’s in his office, and he hasn’t got anything to do at all for the rest of the week, or at least for another hour. Harry’s in the middle of his first criminal justice case, so even considering texting him would be futile. In the past, he would have called Danielle, and asked her if she wanted to go for a late lunch, but he doesn’t, like - he doesn’t. He’s scrolling through his contacts and lamenting, not for the first time, how few personal numbers he has on here, and is about ready to give up and pull up a movie on his Netflix to watch alone when he comes across what he’s memorised by now to be Zayn’s number. 

He has to be honest in saying that he doesn’t really think about it as he sends the _Hey_ but he sure as fuck does after. 

Once his phone’s pinged to signal that it’s been sent and the tiny font under reads ‘Delivered’, Liam kind of starts freaking out. He has literally no idea what he was thinking, or if he was thinking at all and now the message has been sent and that’s so _awkward_. He feels like those stupid movies where the main character makes one stupid decision and then every bad deed they’ve ever done flashes before their eyes, except Liam’s just done the stupid decision to his bad deed. 

He's sat there in horror for a few of the longest minutes of his life up to date, staring at his phone like it'll burn him alive, until it buzzes and lights up. He isn't sure if he would've prefered no reply than what he does get: _if u thnk u can just txt me w/e & i'll get u off over the phone or s/t then fuck off now im not sum fuckin whore_

Which. Jesus. Liam's never exactly gotten that sort of response before, not even from people who didn't like him much back in uni. He wonders what's happened to have such taut defensiveness become Zayn's default for something as simple and harmless as texting. 

_No ofc not i jsut wantd t speak t u?_

Zayn aptly replies, five minutes later, with _oh k_ , and then _hey_. 

Liam bites his bottom lip to keep from smiling, and he doesn’t know why. 

 

It becomes a thing. 

Liam's never been much of texter; he's always made sure his clients contact him during call or email, and Harry is essentially the only person he has ever initiated contact with. Before Zayn. 

Zayn, it seems, prefers texting over any other forms, and it's a rare chance that Liam texts him that he doesn't respond, even if it takes a while. (He's as horrible with typing as Liam himself is, and that's nice because it means a lack of Harry's rants on the benefits of turning Autocorrect on for once and proper spelling.) Zayn is good with it, once the initial misunderstanding and awkwardness has died down, and he's different, in a way, like - Liam can't explain but he likes it. A lot. 

He’s witty, maybe is the thing, messages Liam a bunch of clever and funny things and will randomly spout out brilliant shit as if it’s nothing more than an aside. He’s a lot more relaxed than Liam would have ever expected in the beginning; he’s horrible at giving jokes, laughs at all the worst ones, and doesn’t mind when Liam sends him stupid internet memes that aren’t even all that funny. He loves comics, superheroes and action and all that comes with it, and will even go off on tangents when he feels like Liam has said something particularly insulting to his preferences. He hates being wrong, but not in the domineering and overwhelming way that Danielle has, where she refuses to even admit that she’s had any fault in the first place. No, with Zayn, he’ll get all pouty or hold out responding to Liam’s texts for a few hours and then laugh at himself after. 

Liam knows it's probably stupid, that he's probably stupid, but Zayn is brilliant and so fucking _beautiful_ , and it has only been two months, but it seems like so much more, and it's getting harder to breathe around the tightening of his chest. 

 

Zayn is sitting with his legs crossed on the window side of the huge bed, and Liam is on his side facing him, head cushioned against too many pillows. They’ve been talking about movies and a whole bunch of nothing, when, out of absolutely nowhere, Zayn asks a question Liam had definitely not been expecting.

“Why are you cheating on your girlfriend?” He asks it in the same tone he sometimes asks _is it raining outside_ , curiosity a noticeable inflection in his tone, and Liam doesn’t know how to respond. He’s been caught off guard, going from swiss versus provolone to _this_. When Liam doesn’t respond right away, Zayn prompts, “well?”

Liam opens his mouth. Closes it. “I’m sorry?”

Zayn snorts in amusement. “Come on, I really hope you didn’t take me for an idiot. Why are you? I don’t, like, care, I never care, that sort of misplaced guilt goes away when you’ve been doing what I do for this long, but...” He angles his body to face Liam’s now, tilting his head with that same bloody _look_ in his eyes. Liam wants to know what he’s thinking. Liam always wants to know what Zayn is thinking. “Usually it’s, like, y’know, pretty obvious, especially by this point, but you don’t seem to be an asshole, at least not here, with me, and if it’d been revenge, you wouldn’t have come back a second time. Why are you cheating on your girlfriend?”

Liam wants to ask how Zayn even knows it’s a girl, knows anything at all, but he’s been fucking around for too long and he doesn’t care about the hows of much at all anymore. He turns his face partially into the soft down of the pillow, and whisper-asks, “why does there have to be a reason?” It smells like Zayn, and his heart pangs. 

Zayn laughs. “There’s always a reason.”

“I don’t know.” The next words spring up in his mind, and he’s been avoiding thinking it for so long now, but it’s _it_ , and he can’t pretend otherwise, not anymore. His throat clogs up as he finally says aloud, admits to himself, “I don’t love her anymore.”

“Does she still love you?” 

Liam can’t help notice how surreal this is, talking about Danielle with the person he’s been cheating on her with for a little over two months. Jesus. “No, I don’t... I don’t think she’s loved me for a very long time.”

“Why are you still together, then?” There’s something in his voice that could be mistaken for pity, but Liam likes to assume that he knows Zayn a bit by now, knows that’s not an emotion he cares much for feeling, but he doesn’t know what else it could be, and he’d really like to. Zayn shrugs. “Break up. I hear that tends to put an immediate end to relationship issues.”

 _No, you don't understand_ , Liam thinks. Harry and Zayn would get along. They both make it seem like it'll be the simplest thing in the world, like it's a matter of Liam calling Danielle and telling her it's over. It's not. It can't be. "S'not that simple." 

"Why not, Liam?" Zayn asks softly. Liam's hands ache; he wants to touch skin, but he's fairly certain that he shouldn't. Not right now. 

"We've been dating for, like, a while. A long while. My sisters like who they think she is, and even my grandmother expects me to marry her." It's the first time he's said any of this out loud, beyond the vague half-thoughts of his mind, but it's like now that he has, it all comes rushing out. He doesn't know what's different now, but he suspects it's Zayn. "I don't know how to _not_ be with her. My best friend's getting married in fucking Prague this spring to a bloke he told me he was in love with after three weeks, and they're _brilliant_ and still so happy, and then there's. Then there's me."

Laughing humourlessly, Liam finishes, "I'm sorry, that was stupid. Sorry.”

Liam's not sure what he was expecting, but all Zayn tells him is, "routine's a pretty shit reason to be with someone."

The simplicity of it hits Liam hard, and he can only stare up at Zayn blankly for a moment, smart hazel eyes gazing back at him. Same old curiosity. It's not necessary. Liam would tell him anything he wanted to know. 

"Yes, well." Liam sighs. "Can we please talk about something else. Please."

"Yeah," Zayn murmurs, running his thumb across Liam's brow and arching his body down to kiss him. "We can."

 

**ix.**

 

Liam's always thought that when you find _the_ one, that single person that you know, beyond all the past relationships and experiences that led you there, is it, it'd be dramatic. 

Maybe not so much trumpets and a cavalry leading you to your proper destiny, but at least a striking epiphany. Maybe things have gone wrong and you race down the train station to find them or driving hundreds of miles to let them know that you're theirs and you always have been. Something. 

He's out front on the lawn of the first H4H home with Matt, his righthand man and best employee, waiting for the recipients to get here so he can finally meet them and help officially give the key to the place. It's nice, if he's being humble; two stories and five rooms, two and a half baths and a whole lot of extra space. A bit anxious. 

His hand buzzes in his back pocket, and Liam quickly takes it out, expecting it to be a picture of Harry sending him a pic of the potential tuxes that he's been waiting for for the past few hours. It's not. Instead, it's Zayn, who's sent him an excerpt from some play that he found funny. 

Liam, of course, doesn't get it, and while Zayn sends him a bloody analysis of Shakespeare in entirely txt-speak, Liam blinks, and it's like things have gotten brighter and better and worth waiting for because, God, he's in love with Zayn and this is where it's all been heading for. This is it for him. Zayn is it. 

And that's that. 

 

**x.**

 

Liam breaks up with Danielle on a Tuesday. He can't say it ends on a cordial note. He can't say he cares, either.

When he goes to the cake tasting that afternoon, Harry and Louis look as if they're going to rib him for being so late, but then he says, face flushed and blood running fast through his veins, "I broke up with her," and Harry jumps out of his seat so quickly that it crashes to the floor. 

"Liam," he says. 

"Harry," Liam replies, cautiously grinning. 

"Fuck! Jesus. _Liam_." Harry looks like he's just won the lottery or climbed Mt. Everest, and Liam is just. Things are good and Harry is the best person he's ever had, and it's overwhelming right now. 

Harry hugs him, warm and tight, and when he finally pulls back, raves on and on about how, "this is the best day of my life. She-Witch has been melted, 've got my two best boys and a table full of cake. Could die happy right now."

"Don't die until after the wedding," Louis warns, signalling someone behind Liam that they're ready to start. 

"You're right, I'll wait 'til after the reception. Liam, you're forgiven for being late, but can we please finally get this stupid show on the road?"

Liam never bothers to mention that his tardiness has nothing to do with Danielle and everything to do with having to tell Zayn before he exploded. The fights may have stopped for sure now, but he doesn't see an end to Zayn anytime soon. 

It's the first warm Tuesday of April, he's on two hours of sleep, and Liam is not tired.


End file.
